


Gathered Rosebuds

by tigerlady (shetiger)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Hints of feelings between all three, Other, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Merlin, there was still life in Camelot. Before Merlin, there was still her father, and Morgana, and Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gathered Rosebuds

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this near the end of the first series. Surprisingly, I don't think it's been Jossed very much (other than a lack of Elyan). Thanks go out to my husband on this one for holding my hand. :)

Gwen remembers--

_Laughing voices and strong arms and gentle fingers swiping gruel from her chin. Being warm, tucked between two people who loved her so very much that she was never scared. Wordless humming and a gentle smile as Gwen waits with her lip caught between her baby teeth, patience stretched thin while her mum slices the sweet, shrivelled apple into pieces small enough for her to chew._

_Soft, sweet-smelling hair, curtained around Gwen's face as she presses in close to her mum's neck._

\--and little more.

* * *

When she's six years old, maybe less, maybe more, her father takes her to a tournament for the very first time. The crowds are loud, but her da keeps an arm around her at all times, sometimes levering her up onto his lap so she can see better. He tells her all about the armour the knights wear, the great gleaming shoulder girdles and chest plates and the tunics made of rings and the sturdy helms that make the men look like creatures from the stories other children whisper in the eave-shadowed streets. Gwen knows that they're men, though, because she's seen them come to the house often enough to be transformed by her father's hands.

"Look at him," her da scoffs quietly, mouth by the side of her face. "Dressed like a popinjay in that thing he calls a helm. Mark my words, Gwen. He'll go down before he lands a single blow."

The man in front of them turns and gives them a dark look. Gwen curls her fingers into the fabric of her da's sleeve, but he doesn't pay the man any mind. He nods, roughened cheek comforting against hers, and points to the arena. Sure enough, the popinjay knight doesn't see the other knight swinging, and he falls to his knees in an ungainly heap.

"Remember that, Gwen. It's not about what looks pretty. It's what gets the job done."

Gwen nods, watching as one knight marches off the field, and the other limps behind him. That's when she sees **him** for the first time: a little blond boy squinting into the sun, sitting so straight in the giant chair that he almost looks a statue. A tall man with a glittering gold band on his head sits in another chair beside him, but it doesn't look so giant around him. That man is still and straight as well, and something about the way he glares out at the field makes Gwen want to run away and hide. She looks back at the boy, wondering if there is something wrong with him.

Her view is blocked when another pair of knights come to fight, but she doesn't lose focus on what she wants to see. When the clash of their swords pulls them to the side, she sees him again--and this time, he is leaning forward in his chair, hands gripping the rail before him like he wants to jump out and join the play. He's not squinting any longer, though the sun is still so bright it hurts her own eyes, and for one moment she thinks a smile crosses his face.

In that moment, she thinks he's marvellous.

The scary man reaches out, laying a huge hand on the blond boy's shoulder and drawing him back into his seat. Once again he is still and straight, no trace of a smile to be seen.

"Stop staring at the king's box, Gwen," her da murmurs. "It's not our place."

* * *

"I'm not the royal armourer, Gwen," he reminds her yet again, when she asks why they can't go into the beautiful castle that looms above their house. "Maybe someday, if I can get enough of the knights to talk about my work, but it's not that simple."

"But you make the best swords! Sir Cador said so!"

"Aah, Guinevere," her da says, using her full name in that way that means he wants to tell her something sad, but he cannot bear to do so. Instead he kisses the top of her head, and then points to the whetstone beside her. "My good girl. Hand me that, would you?"

She picks up the heavy stone with every bit of care she has, not wanting to drop and shatter it, and carries it across the small yard. His hand is so much bigger than hers, so much stronger as he lifts the burden away, but his prideful eyes make her feel nearly as strong.

"Finish with the sweeping, and then you can go play until dark," he tells her--but there is so much more than sweeping to be done, and no one to do it but her and her father. She sweeps out their house, then tidies the bedroom and the cooking space. She considers the stack of mending. Her fingers still haven't figured out how to handle the needle without pricking themselves constantly, and he did say she could go... But her fingers won't get any smarter if she doesn't teach them.

Maybe, some other day, there will be time to play.

* * *

It's another year of seasons before she dares to do what she has been dreaming of as long as she can remember. The summer sun is sweltering hot on the back of her neck as she darts up the hill and towards the postern gate. At least twenty knights are training on the grassy field outside the curtain wall, hauberks and pauldrons gleaming, the sun flashing off their swords. Gwen pauses to catch her breath--and that's when she sees him. The scary man. The king. He is wearing armour, just like the knights, but it's not just the layers of cloaks and jewellery he's swathed in that separate him from the rest. He stalks amongst them, not saying a word, and just before he turns in her direction, Gwen races off again.

She slides down the hill and ducks behind a tree, glancing back to make sure she is out of sight. She doesn't know why he scares her so. Her father had simply chuckled when she confessed her fright, and told her that Uther is a good, just king, a man who had defeated many foes solely to keep people like them safe. Gwen trusts her father, but...

Gwen closes her eyes. There is nothing to fear, and this is an adventure. She might not be in Camelot's keep itself, but she's close enough to touch the stone of its walls. Close enough for the shadow it casts to cool her skin. She takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes with a smile.

A lone boy stands on the grassy sward before her. He is dressed in a tiny hauberk, much smaller than any she's ever seen her father make, and he carries a real steel sword instead of the wooden ones boys his age play with. He doesn't wear a helm, and his hair is as bright as the sun.

Arthur, Prince of Camelot.

She shouldn't watch him, she knows that now. It's not her place. He hasn't noticed her, though, deep into his exercises as he is, and if she keeps quiet, he probably won't. She creeps towards the crease between the field he is in and the hill she is on. It's not a long drop, one she could probably leap down without hurting herself, but she daren't get closer.

Gwen has seen peasant boys at play, and her father swinging the swords he makes, and has been to enough tournaments to see how real knights fight. But Arthur is none of those. He is far more graceful than any peasant, boy or otherwise, but his face shows none of their joy. He doesn't have the power that her father has in the laziest swing of his arm, but she thinks that is only because he is so very small. He is not as skilled as the knights, but it is they he most closely resembles.

She watches him repeat stance after stance, swing after swing, until his hair darkens with sweat and rivulets stream down his cheek, and she begins to understand exactly where he is struggling. It is when he makes the broadest strokes, the sword extended far past his body, that she sees the point tremble and his wrist bend. After a few more repetitions, she figures out why.

"The grip's too big for your hand!" she exclaims--and then she slaps a hand over her mouth, horrified when he turns to look at her at last.

He slides the sword into its sheath as he walks closer to her. "Do I know you?"

Arthur may be but a boy, one who is shorter than her and is possibly slighter under all that armour, yet despite his high-pitched voice he sounds more grown-up than any adult she knows. Grown up, and angry.

"Um. I'm Guinevere. Sire." She ducks her head, but then she can't help looking up to see his reaction. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I know, but I noticed the problem and I just couldn't help myself. Sire."

He frowns at her. She knots her fingers into her skirts and looks back down at her knees, terrified of what he might say next. Her father has never actually said what bad things might happen if she angers a noble, but she knows to the depths of her being that they are terrible.

"You noticed the problem?" he asks, and she looks up in time to see the sneer curling his upper lip. "What does a peasant girl know about fighting?"

"Oh, no, I don't know much about fighting, not really," she assures him. "It's just that my father's a blacksmith, see, and I can tell from the way that your wrist dips when you reach out that the grip's too big for your hand. It's not obvious when you've got it close to your body because you're strong enough to compensate for the weight...and I've really said too much, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have," he says quietly. His lips are twisted up, but he's not looking at her anymore. He's looking at the pommel of his sword, rising from the belt at his waist. He pulls the sword from the sheath and Gwen can't help but gasp with fear. He looks at her then, and smiles. It's not quite a friendly smile, but it's not cruel, either. "I'm not going to hurt you, silly girl."

"Thank you, Sire," she murmurs, the strength of her voice completely gone. She wants to flee while she can, but she knows better than to leave before he's dismissed her. Arthur shows no signs of doing that anytime soon, intent as he is on waving his sword about. He does the same lunging thrust that she commented on--and stops with the sword extended, eyes wide as he turns his head towards her. Their gazes lock, and she can't look away.

"My father could make you a better one," she says, before she can stop herself. "He's really very good. The knights who come to him all say so."

For a moment she thinks he'll agree. But then he straightens and sheaths his sword with a decisive whoosh of steel. "No. I must learn to overcome any difficulties I face on the battlefield."

"Oh. Of course."

He nods once, then turns and walks away, back to his practice.

Without dismissing her.

Gwen hesitates, wondering what she should do. She watches him for a while, and once it seems that he has all but forgotten her presence, she rises as quietly as she can manage and makes her way up the slippery grass of the hill. Once she clears the practice field she races all the way home, fast enough that her da looks up when he sees her, worry all over his face.

"Gwen! Is something the matter?"

Her breath comes fast and harsh, but once she finally swallows enough air to answer him, she finds a smile has grown across her face. "No," she tells him. "I was just having fun."

* * *

She doesn't dare go back to the field.

* * *

She doesn't dare go back to the field, not until the days grow shorter and autumn starts to show in the outer leaves of the trees. Arthur is there, almost as if he has never left, but if her eyes do not deceive her, he has grown a span taller. Still shorter than she, but enough that when he lunges the sword doesn't tremble, and his wrist stays firm. Perhaps he was right not to get a new blade, if he is growing that fast.

He looks over to her once, a shadow of a smile gracing his face while he meets her eyes, but then he goes back to his practice as if she is not there.

She comes back whenever she can, sneaking moments away from her chores. Through trial and error she discovers that he is only there in the late afternoons; just after midday he trains with a senior knight in the regular practice field, and before that he is nowhere to be found, presumably doing whatever it is that princes do in their mornings. He only ever acknowledges her with a quick glance and a small smile, and Gwen keeps herself small against the side of the hill, feet tucked in under her skirts and her hands over her knees, always telling herself that this is the last afternoon she'll waste with this silliness.

"What did you say your name is, again?" he calls one afternoon, shocking her so badly that she startles like a young hare scared out of a thicket.

"Guinevere," she calls back, but before she can get the _but most people call me Gwen_ out he's pointing towards the bucket not far from her side.

"Fetch me some water, Guinevere," he says, and irritation flashes through her before she can think better of it. This isn't some annoying boy in the street, trying to order her around because he's acting bigger than his breeches. This is Arthur, Prince of Camelot, and he's ordering her about because that's what she's there for.

She jumps down from her perch, ankles wobbling for a moment in the soft earth. There is a deep ladle beside the bucket, which she fills and carries over to him. He's not as short as she thought, although she isn't sure if that's because he's grown or because she's used to looking down at him from above. He drains it without taking a breath, and then he hands the ladle back to her and wipes the water from his chin.

"Thank you, Guinevere," he says, smiling fully for the first time that she's ever seen, and all of her lingering irritation melts away. By the time she remembers she should curtsy he's already moved away, back to his practice, and all Gwen can do is scamper back to the bucket and wonder at her beating heart.

* * *

A low-perched robin scolds her as she races under the branches of the tree, but Gwen doesn't pay it any mind. She has been kept away from here for months, trapped inside their home by the winter's cold and the need to help her father. She's told herself over and over that Arthur wouldn't have been out here anyway, not when the weather was so cruel, but she hasn't been able to make herself believe it.

He is the first thing she sees when she rounds the flank of the keep. Taller yet again, and she thinks the sword he carries is different. Longer, and heavier. Gwen makes her way down the hill towards her usual spot--and that's when she sees the other girl.

She is about Gwen's height, but that is about the only thing alike between them. Her hair is long, sleeker than a marten's winter coat, and she wears a flowing, delicate blue dress that has no place out here in the grass and dirt. Gwen stops, uncertain whether she should leave, and the girl turns her head. She smiles at Gwen, and there is no doubt that this girl is the prettiest Gwen has ever seen.

No, not pretty. _Beautiful_.

"You must be the blacksmith's daughter. Guinevere, right?" The girl walks towards her, hands extended. "You are exactly how I imagined!"

"Oh, um. Most people call me Gwen," she manages. "You know of me?"

The girl rolls her eyes. "Arthur mentioned you once, and I pried the rest out of him. You know how he is."

"Oh, not really. I mean." Gwen's head is full of fluttering ribbon, all confused and tangled by the whirlwind girl in front of her. Part of her is gleeful that Arthur mentioned her, that he mentioned her by _name_ , yet she's suddenly realized that these visits have netted her very little at all. "I just watch him sometimes."

"I'm Morgana, by the way." She clasps Gwen's hands in hers and draws her down to the edge of the field, where a blanket is spread over the grass. She sits elegantly, pulling Gwen in close beside her as if it is the most natural thing in the world. "Do you really enjoy watching him? I would think it would get boring after a while."

Gwen shrugs. "It's more interesting than mending hose all day."

"Or embroidery," Morgana agrees. She leans closer, like she's about to share a secret. "But I'd much rather be doing the sword-work than watching it. Wouldn't you?"

"But--" _Girls don't fight. It's not proper. It's not our place._ While all those things fight for control of her tongue, her muscles remember the way they want to lunge and reach and stretch in sympathy with Arthur's motions. Morgana has looked away, towards Arthur, giving Gwen the chance to study her face. What she sees there is hunger.

Gwen's hungry, too.

"Yes," she says at last, but it sounds timid. Uncertain. "Yes, I would," she says more strongly.

Morgana turns back to her with a brilliant smile. "Wonderful! Tomorrow I'll bring practice swords, and we'll start training. Do you have any breeches?"

Gwen shakes her head. What has she got herself into?

"No matter. I imagine we won't be leaping about an awful lot at first. We'll have to come up with a training strategy. I know some stuff from my father, but..." Morgana stops, seeming to notice her confusion for the first time. Her eyebrows draw together and she leans forward "Gwen? Are you sure you want to do this? I won't make you, you know."

"No, I do want to!" She nearly blushes at how vehement she is, but she won't take it back. "I'm just surprised you want to. I mean, we just now met."

Morgana smiles at her, and threads her arm through Gwen's. "I know. But I can feel that we're going to be the most fast of friends."

* * *

When Arthur sees what they're about, he throws his head back and laughs, great pealing guffaws that bounce off the stone behind them like the sharp fall of her father's mallet against the anvil.

"What was it Uther said this morning?" Morgana purrs once he finally stops. "Something about how he was able to use a _real_ sword at your age?"

That shuts him up. He stalks off, back to his practice, and doesn't say another word while they begin their new work.

* * *

The roses have started to bloom, little pink blushes flirting with the vines about town, and Gwen is still fumbling with the heavy oak stick shaped into the likeness of a sword. She'd known it wouldn't be easy, but for some reason she feels more than clumsy as she tries to move through the exercises that Morgana has set for them.

Gwen repeats the third form, but it's no good. The tip of the sword wavers all over the place and her wrist aches and she doesn't think she'd manage to hit a man if he walked up and tried to impale himself. She lets it drop to her side, and glances over at Morgana, who is flowing through each strike knight-smooth. Morgana has told her to ask for help when she needs it, but Gwen hesitates today. It isn't purely her pride. Morgana's eyes were puffy and red when she arrived, as if she had spent the whole morning crying, and Gwen doesn't want to take away the measure of peace she's achieved at last.

"Here," Arthur says from right beside her. Gwen jumps, so surprised that she hardly notices him pulling the stick from her hand. "Forget this for now. It's only distracting you. What you really need to concentrate on is your footwork."

Gwen nods, unable to speak as he slowly shows her how to move. She's so nervous that her knees are wobbly and her breath is tight in her chest, but Arthur doesn't seem to notice. He leads her through the motions again and again, until he nods. "Good. Learn the movements first, then start to build the strength. Your technique will be much better that way." Then he blinks, as if he's suddenly realized who he's talking to. "Er. Not that you'll ever need it."

"Of course, Sire," she murmurs. "Thank you."

He nods shortly and moves off as quickly as his noble haughtiness will allow. Gwen looks over at Morgana, eyebrows raised, caught between astonishment and irritation at what's just transpired. Morgana rolls her eyes, but she's got a smile on her face.

* * *

It is an early evening in late autumn, the afternoon light too fickle now for their practice, when a slim girl in a hooded cloak raps on their door. Gwen's father ushers her in with a confused look. When she pushes back the hood, the polishing cloth he'd been using flutters out of his hand, though he manages to snatch it out of the air before it reaches the ground.

"I don't have much time," Morgana says with an apologetic smile. "They'll notice I'm gone soon."

"My lady," her father says, and then he glances at Gwen, clearly lost for words.

"Is there something you need, my lady?" she asks, nearly as uneasy as he is, for she knows Morgana would not be here without good reason.

"My maid has taken ill," she says, and Gwen bites her lip, wondering what she could possibly do in aid. "Gaius says that she will recover, but that it would be best if she retires from service."

"That's tough, that," Tom says.

Morgana nods. "She is very dear to me. But now I am in need of a new maid, and I hoped that Gwen might want the position."

Gwen grabs for the knob of the chair back, her knees gone wobbly with shock. "Me?"

"Uther doesn't really care who I choose, as long as it's done properly," Morgana explains. "But I wanted to ask you before I put your name forward."

She shakes her head. "But I don't know anything about being a lady's maid."

"There isn't that much to learn. Just a bit of mending and looking after my chambers." Morgana shrugs. "Mostly you would be keeping me company throughout the day. I could think of no one I would rather have for that than you."

The warmth of sunny afternoons spent on the hill behind the keep floods through her all at once. Gwen looks to her father, and his smile is bright enough to be the sun itself. She lets go of the chair and somehow manages to bob a halfway decent curtsy. "I would be honoured."

"Oh, I am so glad!" And then Morgana throws her arms around Gwen, the dew-damp velvet of her cloak enveloping the both of them. Gwen tentatively returns the embrace. Morgana's hair is softer even than the velvet.

"Now I must go, before Uther misses me," Morgana says. "I will send for you on the morrow!"

Her father bows and sees her out the door. Then he turns to Gwen, his grin now as wide as his outstretched arms. "My Guinevere," he says, hugging her so tight her feet lift from the floor. "Servant to the royal family!"

She giggles into his shoulder. The smile remains on her face, long after he sets her back down.

* * *

Winter's chill is days absent from the greening fields outside, but the stone of the castle's walls still holds the cold close. Gwen opens the windows in Morgana's rooms, hoping that some of the sun-warmed air will make its way inside. Maybe chase away some of the darkness along with the dank.

The courtyard is thick with servants and knights about their business, as usual, and Gwen takes a moment to linger in the sun and watch them. Being within the castle's walls is not as amazing as she'd imagined all those years ago, but she still finds it fascinating, the way everything is so chaotic yet runs so smoothly. Especially the knights. She knows there is a reasoning behind who stands where and who rushes to and fro, yet she has not been able to work it out.

Even as she watches, a small knot of them marches through the main gate, wearing chain but bare-headed. Fresh off the practice field, most likely, though she knows now that there are also regular patrols that go out to keep all of Camelot safe. As they grow closer she can see that their hair is wet, from exertion or water or both, so she thinks that her first guess was right. Gwen leans a little farther forward, fingers gripping at the edge of the stone, and she's rewarded by her first glimpse of Arthur. He's taller than her now, but still shorter than the knights, and with him in the back of the pack he's hard to see until their path brings them closer.

When they are just about to pass out of her line of sight, Arthur looks up, straight at Morgana's window. Gwen thinks he smiles, but it is always so hard to tell.

The sound of a loud, terribly plebeian yawn draws Gwen back from her perch. Morgana has one arm stretched over her head, but her eyelids are barely fluttering. Gwen fills a goblet with water. By the time she approaches the bed, Morgana's rubbing her hands over her face.

"Good morning, my lady," Gwen says.

"Is it still?" Morgana murmurs before she takes the goblet. Gwen holds her answer until after Morgana has washed away the taste of the night and handed back the goblet.

"It is morning, but only just." Gwen picks up one of the pillows that has made its way to the floor and tucks it behind Morgana's shoulders. Morgana seems to still be somewhere between the night and day, her gaze fixed on the far wall as her body shifts to assist Gwen's motions. "Did Gaius's draught help this time?" 

"Some," she says distantly.

"You still had nightmares?"

Morgana nods jerkily. Gwen bites her lip, then reaches out to touch her shoulder, daring to offer comfort unasked. They have been close for many seasons now, and she doesn't think Morgana will object, but her breath still rushes out of her when Morgana leans back into her hand.

"I don't want to talk about them." Morgana's voice is small, like a little girl's instead of the woman she is closer to becoming, and all Gwen wants to do is gather her close and shush her back to sleep. Before Gwen can gather her courage to do anything close to that, Morgana's head snaps up and she turns to face Gwen. Her eyes are locked on Gwen's, yet they seem strangely unfocused, too, like she is seeing both near and far.

"Promise me, Gwen," she gasps out.

"What?" Gwen shakes her head at herself. "I mean, yes. Yes, of course. But what is it?"

Morgana grabs Gwen's wrist, pulling it away from Morgana's shoulder. "Promise me you'll never hate me."

Gwen gapes for a second. There are tears welling up in Morgana's eyes. Gwen doesn't think then, just drops down onto the narrow stretch of bed beside Morgana's hip and wraps her free arm around Morgana's shoulders. 

"How could you ever think that I would?" she asks, aghast, and holds on tightly as Morgana weeps in her arms.

* * *

"Slacking off, I see."

Gwen curls upwards at the first sound of Arthur's voice, flailing awkwardly before she decides it's not necessary to stand. Not when Morgana doesn't even twitch in reaction to his presence, eyes still shut against the sun. Gwen tucks her feet in close to her body, wishing for her skirts if only for something to fuss with, and lifts a hand to her eyes so she can look up. Arthur is standing an arm's length away, with an eyebrow cocked and lips curled up in a smirk. His hair is dark with sweat, some still beaded up on his temples like he didn't even bother to wipe it away before coming over here from the practice field, and he's holding his sword in a loose grip at his side.

"Tired of getting your royal thrashing, I see," Morgana mimics with a smile. She sits up, far more gracefully than Gwen could ever manage, and braces herself with her hands behind her. One of the dandelions they had braided into her hair has started to come loose, brushing against her temple, but Morgana pays it no mind.

Normally Morgana's cutting words would have Arthur biting back, or stalking off in silence, but today he simply smiles. "No thrashing today," he says mildly, as if it's of no consequence, but his eyes are alight with a joy Gwen has never seen. He sheathes his sword, then folds his legs under himself with an easy grace, his hauberk jingling merrily as he seats himself just off the blanket at Morgana's side.

Morgana narrows her eyes, clearly curious, but no question leaves her lips. Gwen rolls her eyes before she thinks better of it, and asks what they both want to know. "Practice went well?"

Arthur shrugs, but the twitching of his lips belies his nonchalance. "I disarmed Sir Ector."

"That's brilliant!" Gwen bounces a little with her excitement for him, and Arthur flashes a grin her way before turning his gaze on Morgana.

"What, no words of praise from the lady?"

The calculating look has not left her eyes, but Gwen wonders if Arthur even sees it for the lovely smile on her face. "I suppose that is very impressive," she says, inclining her head. Arthur puffs up, preening like a cock robin--just as Morgana lifts her head and levels a smug smile his way. "Since we both know I can kick your arse whenever I feel like it."

"That's not true!" Arthur looks so flummoxed, mouth working like he doesn't know whether to defend or attack, that Gwen has to giggle. His eyebrows knit with hurt as his attention is drawn back to her, and she feels bad, if only a little, for taking away some of his joy.

"Was he very pleased, then?" Gwen asks.

Her gambit works, restoring the glow to Arthur's eyes. "He was," he says--and then a truly glorious grin breaks forth. "But not as pleased as my father."

"Oh, Arthur," Morgana gasps, stretching forward to lay her fingers on his wrist. There's nothing smug or grudging about her smile this time. Their gazes lock, sharing a silent communion as they do sometimes, a oneness that makes Gwen certain that Morgana will be queen someday.

Arthur is the first to pull away, bringing his hand up to deftly untangle the drooping dandelion from Morgana's hair. Morgana reaches for it, but then Arthur's smile turns devilish. He holds it out towards Gwen instead. Her fingers don't tremble as she accepts it, though it's a near thing.

"Roses suit you better," he tells Morgana, enough sincerity in his voice that a blush rises on her cheeks.

* * *

Gwen doesn't think she'll ever grow accustomed to the Feast of Midwinter, not as it's celebrated in Uther's court. Holly and evergreen adorn every sconce and table and pillar, their berries brighter than Pendragon red and the cones cracked open from the heat. The scent is heady, spilling out to mingle with that of the food. 

And _oh_ , the food. It is so far beyond what she ever dreamed when she was little. The great boar alone, with its apple-stuffed mouth, could feed her and her da through the famine months.

She has been working trebly hard for days, assisting the rest of the castle staff with preparations, making sure that Morgana had choice of any of her beautiful gowns, and darting back down to town when she could manage to make sure their own humble home did not lack the touch of the season. Her feet are tired enough for three people--maybe four, she thinks as she shifts her weight yet again, wine pitcher clutched to her chest--but no sleepiness touches her brow. Not while the minstrels sing of their muses, or as the lords and ladies square up to dance. 

Morgana is partnered with Arthur this turn. Gwen smiles to see them so turned out. The jewels at Morgana's throat and ears shine near as bright as her hair. The velvet of her dress is as deep and dark as the night the fires keep at bay. By the smile on Morgana's face, Gwen thinks that Arthur must be behaving himself tonight. Gwen's feet don't hurt quite as much at the moment, as if she's the one being spun across the floor. Not even a glance at the head table, where Uther glowers like a snow-laden cloud, dents her enthusiasm. She's grown accustomed to the king over the past few years, and while she will never be comfortable in his presence, the dark looks he regularly casts down don't send her scurrying for her father's apron, either.

Later, after the tallow has burned low and the boar is nothing but bones, Gwen stands by the frost-shrouded window in Morgana's chambers as her lady brushes out her hair. Her father is long abed, she is certain, tucked in tight under threadbare quilts, the warming pan undoubtedly forgotten beside the hearth. She makes a wordless midwinter wish, casting it out into the cold, and then turns back to see if Morgana has need of her yet.

"Do you know the saying," Morgana asks, eyes unseeing as she runs her fingers over the soft bristles of her brush again and again, "that what you dream on Midwinter is what will take place in the coming year?"

Gwen frowns. "I've heard it, yeah."

Morgana finally sets the brush aside, though her sightless gaze never wavers. "Do you think it's true?"

"It's an old wives' tale, isn't?" Gwen shrugs. "I can't say that I've ever remembered my dreams enough to tell. I suppose it wouldn't be that hard to see a bit of truth in it, though. Like if I were to dream of us practicing in the field this spring."

A wisp of a smile touches her lips, and finally, finally, Morgana turns towards her. "That would be a lovely dream."

Gwen bites her lip. "Should I go find Gaius for--"

"No!" Morgana's eyes widen, as if she's as startled by her vehemence as Gwen is. She shakes her head. "No," she says more softly. "I was only thinking about the saying. I'm sure I'll sleep fine tonight."

Gwen holds her peace. The nightmares don't come all that often, really, and surely Morgana knows herself better than anyone else does. "All right, then. Did you need anything else?"

"That'll be all, Gwen, thank you." But then she ducks her head. "Except... You could stay the night?"

Gwen's heart skips. Her father is alone, undoubtedly cold, and she should see to him.

"It's just that the sheets will be so much warmer with two." Morgana's words wobble, like a frightened child's, and Gwen knows, then, that there is no part of her that can refuse Morgana any request.

* * *

"I was thinking," Uther intones, and then he raises his cup. Gwen hurries to his side, the pewter pitcher heavier than usual in her hands. It isn't often that she's called to serve at these family meals alone. But Alwyn, Uther's personal servant, has a fit of the ague, and Arthur fired his latest two nights ago, after the Midsummer feast. The kitchen staff has been ablaze with speculation as to why Arthur sent him tumbling arse over acorn down the front steps, but Gwen has closed her ears to their words. The less she hears of Matthias and his beastly hands, the happier she'll be.

"Is it such an uncommon endeavour that you've taken to announcing it, then?" Morgana asks.

Uther lowers his cup, mouth twisted. Gwen knows it is not the wine that is sour. The wine is never sour, nor the blackberries that ring his plate.

"You," he says, flicking the backs of his fingers at Morgana, "are far too cheeky for a lady of your age. Which brings me to my point. I've decided you need better guidance than your tutor can provide. I've contacted several suitable courts about the matter, and I'm confident a solution will be reached quite soon."

"You cannot mean to send me away," Morgana says, and her voice is as tight as Gwen's fingers on the pitcher.

If Morgana is sent away, then Gwen...Gwen will have to choose. Her father, or Morgana.

Uther plucks the remaining leg from the pheasant carcass in the middle of the table, sucking flesh away from the bone before he continues. "It does seem to be the most convenient solution."

Morgana leans forward, knife clutched in her fist. Purple-red drops cling to it, lingering specks of the savory sauce. "The king's ward is not a vassal's daughter, sent to serve as hostage for her lord."

"I am fully aware of that. Which is why I've requested a vassal's daughter, as you so put it, to be sent here." Uther belches softly into his gloved fist, masking the sigh of Gwen's own relief. He holds up his cup again. "Lady Margaret would do nicely. Or perhaps Cador's daughter. Edwina, I think it is."

"Simpering, useless fools, the both of them," Morgana snips. "If you expect me to learn anything at all from their like, then you're a fool as well."

"That, my dear," Uther says, levelling his gaze at her, "is exactly why I intend to find someone."

"My manners are perfect." Morgana slams her knife down, flat. "Just because I choose when to employ them doesn't mean I need further instruction. I could dance etiquette rings around anyone you pick."

Gwen rolls her eyes, then immediately flushes at the slip. It takes her a moment to remember that she's standing behind and between Uther and Morgana. She's out of their line of sight, but more importantly, they're far too engaged in each other to notice a simple serving girl's presence.

Arthur, though.

Arthur _winks_.

* * *

The sun is sliding down the sky like a broken egg on a plate, trailing orange-yellow streaks in its wake. The shadows are far too deep for Gwen's eyes, the early spring chill is a bane to her grip, and she is not unhappy to have been relegated to the grassy slope. Gwen tucks her fingers under her arms, but the jolt that hits her heart with each clamorous clash from below does more to keep her warm than her thin cotton wrap.

Neither cold nor shadows weigh on Morgana. She swings her purloined steel mercilessly, as if her opponent on the field is merely the first of many she plans to defeat. Her fervour is enough to set Arthur onto his heels, leaving him off-balance until he shoves hard, hard enough that she stumbles back a handful of paces. Gwen's own feet dance in place, moved by sympathetic need.

"Tired yet?" Arthur crows.

Morgana scoffs. "Hardly. Is this truly the standard for Camelot's knights? I do worry for our borders, if that's the case."

Arthur rises to the bait, advancing with a flurry of strikes. Gwen pinches her nails into her own flesh each time Morgana meets a blow. Arthur's strength is such that he drives Morgana back a step each time, but she is quick. Quicker than he. He raises his sword again, and Morgana darts around, aiming to find his flank.

Arthur spins, bringing his sword down just in time. Steel screeches against steel as he twists her sword away, but Morgana manages to free it before he can disarm her. Arthur surges forward as she spins, slipping an arm under hers to attempt to catch her by the waist.

They are directly in front of Gwen when it happens; she sees the horror on his face. She sees his hand, cupped around a full mound of feminine flesh.

Morgana doesn't even notice. Not that Gwen can tell. Arthur is shocked into stillness, but Morgan finishes her spin, pulling away from his grasp and bringing her sword up. Arthur finally responds, but his arm is sluggish. She bats his sword away and trips him to the ground, lowering the point of her own to his throat.

"Yield," she cries, triumphant.

Arthur knocks her sword to the side and rolls to his feet. "We're done here."

"Not until you yield," Morgana says. "I beat you, fair and square."

Arthur stills. "You cheated," he says, colder than his steel. Gwen bites her lip, but it is not her place to come between them.

"I did not! How dare you say such a thing!" Morgana steps forward, crowding into Arthur's space. He scrambles backwards, putting several arm-lengths between them. "Take it back!"

"I will not!"

"I defeated you, fair and square." Morgana thrusts the tip of her sword into the heel-churned earth. "Admit it, or all your precious knight's honour means nothing."

Arthur's jaw clenches. He says nothing for a long time, and Gwen is frightfully glad that Morgana has already yielded her sword. She hasn't seen them argue like this in three years, at least, and never with swords between them.

"You know nothing of my honour," he says, and then stalks away.

"That's because you have none!" Morgana shouts at his back. She lets out a strangled scream, then snatches her sword from the dirt. "I can't believe him, Gwen! Honestly."

Gwen sighs. She slides down off the slope, her long-treasured refuge, and touches Morgana's empty hand. "You won, though. Against a knight of Camelot. That's what counts."

"I did, didn't I?" Morgana smiles. It's a magnificent smile, regal and full of the power Gwen knows she'll wield someday. "And I could do it again. I know I could."

Gwen shivers, and tightens her arms around herself. Her wrap is useless against the cold.

* * *

There is frost on the sill when she opens the shutters the next morn. The cold nipping at her fingers sours her mood as she sets about her day. The milk has gone off, which she only discovers after she takes her first bite of porridge, and one of the page boys crashes into her while racing from the kitchens, leaving greasy prints all over the fresh sheets in her hands.

It is not until Morgana storms into her own chambers, door smashing back into the stone, that Gwen realizes her terrible temper has only been an echo of her mistress's mood.

"What is it?" Gwen asks, laying her mending aside. Arthur barges in behind Morgana, almost at her heels, and neither take notice of her soft query.

"You had something to do with this, I know you did!" Morgana yells. "All because of your stupid male pride."

"And what if I did?" Arthur fires back. His face is as red as Morgana's is pale, spots of colour on the apples of his cheeks. It looks as if someone has slapped him, one smack per side. "Father says that it is inappropriate, and I agree with him."

"Father says," Morgana growls. "Father _says_. Do you ever have any thoughts beyond what _father says_?"

Arthur draws himself up. "He is the _king_ , Morgana. I would watch your tongue, if I were you."

"Being the king does not make him infallible." Morgana snatches her circlet from the dressing table and jams it on her head. A second later she pulls it off again, leaving her hair in disarray, and tosses it on the coverlet. She kneels beside the bed and pulls out the old wooden practice sword, the one that's marred by years of Gwen's clumsy strikes. She stands, stick at her side, and faces Arthur with focused fury. "If my learning was so inappropriate, he should have forbidden it years ago. He _will_ change his mind."

"Morgana," Arthur starts, but she stalks past him and on out the room. Arthur stares at the empty doorway, unmoving but for the clench and release of his jaw.

Gwen picks up Morgana's circlet--and his hand slams into the door. Gwen jumps. She hadn't even seen him pull back his arm for the strike. His eyes, when they turn to her, are hot with anger, but with each breath they cool, until she is brave enough to approach him.

"What happened?" she asks, proud that her voice doesn't shake. "What's so inappropriate? What did Uther forbid?"

His jaw clenches again. "The _king_ has decreed that Morgana should cease her ridiculous play at swords, and concentrate on pursuits fit for a lady."

"No!" Gwen clutches at her skirts. "It isn't play to her! She loves it, more than anything else. Surely he knows that."

Arthur snorts. "It doesn't matter whether she loves it or not."

"But. Can you not say anything to sway him?"

"I wouldn't dream of trying," he says. "Morgana was right about one thing. My father should have put a stop to her ridiculousness years ago."

It's clear to her then. It's in the way his gaze rabbits away from her own, yet can find no place to hide amongst Morgana's things.

"You did this," she says, the certainty making her bold. "Because of what happened yesterday. You went to him because you were afraid, and you took this from her."

"It isn't appropriate," Arthur says again, like some mockingbird cursed with only one song.

"What isn't appropriate? What you accidentally did, or what she did on purpose? She knocked you on your arse, Arthur. Don't tell me you aren't the least bit proud of her for that."

His nostrils flare as he stares down the wall in front of him. "She didn't beat me."

She thinks, perhaps, he actually believes it. Cold clarity firms her spine, like steel squelched in a barrel. It kills the last of her childish delusions, turns her heart to stone and opens her eyes to the true sight of what's before her. Of _who_ is before her.

"I had thought more of you than that," she spits. "I had thought you were truly a prince. But you're nothing but a coward, and a bully at that."

She eases her grip on Morgana's delicate circlet and turns towards the door, intent on finding her mistress. His hand flashes out, quick as a snake. She freezes--but he does not strike.

"Gwen," he says, beseeching.

"My name," she says, head held high as she strides from the room, "is Guinevere. You would do well to remember it."

She doesn't look back at his face.

END


End file.
